I make it home somehow. I don't remember passing any of the normal streets, seeing any of the familiar houses. It feels like one minute I'm sprinting out of the alleyway and the next I'm standing on my front porch. Just like that.

Like someone snapped their fingers.

I'm shivering even though I'm not cold, both my hands and legs still shaking.

I can't stand out here on the porch all night, I know. I have to go inside. Need to change out of these clothes.

Maybe burn them.

I wonder briefly what time it is. If Mom and Dawn will be awake still. From where I'm standing, I don't see any lights on but I know that doesn't mean anything. But I don't want to see them, either of them. I feel like it's written all over my face. I had dirty, lusty wrong, ridiculously incredible back alley sex with Spike.

If the phrase were a facial expression, it would be mine now.

I look down at myself, checking my appearance one more time, then back up into the house. The thought briefly passes my mind that maybe I should just stay somewhere else for tonight.

Eventually, the siren song of a long, hot shower becomes too much for me, and I push the door open and step inside, closing it as quietly as I can behind me. It's quiet inside, but not quiet enough to mean that people aren't still awake. I can hear the faint rustling upstairs, the little bumps and groans that come from having an older house.

I sigh, lean my head back against the door and shut my eyes.

I crossed a line tonight. A big one. One I sort of made the promise to myself I wouldn't cross again, not after everything that happened the first time with Angel.

Angelus.

It's different this time, I know. All vampire's aren't created equal. Angel may have been a vampire when I'd slept with him, but at least he'd had a soul.

When we started.

Honestly, I don't know if it makes it better or worse. I guess the only saving grace here is that I know that can't have happened with Spike. It's not like sleeping with me could have made him any more evil. At least I know he won't be going all William the Bloody and start terrorizing my friends.

Well, no more than usual, anyway.

I guess that's one check in the Pro column for having sex with a soulless demon.

Soulless. Means no soul to lose.

And the fact that this is even a thought I'm having is enough to make my stomach do all kinds of twisty things.

"Oh, God," I groan, bringing my hands up, scrubbing them over my face.

I don't know what I'd expected to happen. That I'd suddenly feel better now, after having just given in to whatever...freaky urges I've been having for the past month? That having sex with Spike would cure me of the lusty and oh so very wrong feelings for him? Except I don't think that's it. I wasn't thinking about getting rid of these feelings when he had me pinned up against the wall.

That was thelast thing I was thinking. I wasn't thinking.

Even afterward, when my head had cleared enough for me to realize what I'd done. I wanted to get away from him, but not because of him. And he...he'd been so angry. Angry that what happened between us had happened. Angry at me for "letting" it. Probably angry with me for having all the answers and not giving him any of them, too.

The real kicker? He deserves to be angry.

And the cherry on top? I know he does.

Which, let's face it, is weird enough. I've gotten pretty good at being denial girl, especially when it comes to things that go bump in the night. Demons and feelings—not so mixy. That's pretty much been my stance from the get go.

I bring my hands down away from my face and lean harder against the doorframe, staring blankly into one of the wooden slats near the bottom of the staircase.

Bizzarro world. That's where I'm living.

Population me.

"What's the matter with you?"

It takes me just a second longer than it should to realize that it isn't my internal monologue still running, but is actually Dawn.

I whip my eyes up to the top of the staircase. She's standing there glowering at me with all the power of her usual teenage angst. Which, quite frankly, is pretty terrifying as of late.

I push myself off the door and force myself to walk forward, trying my best to ignore the pleasant aching that's begun between my legs. Or the reason for it in the first place.

"Hello?" Dawn sing songs as I approach her, taking the stairs extra slowly. She waves her hand in front of my face. "Earth to Buffy?"

I sigh.

This could have all been avoided if I'd just slept outside on the porch.

"What is it, Dawn?" I ask, exasperated, not in the mood.

Dawn opens her mouth like she's going to say something as I walk by, then snaps her mouth shut quickly. She starts to cough, making a show of patting her chest and swiping her hand back and forth in front of her face.

I pause halfway to my room, turn to look at her.

"Ew," she coughs again, "have you been smoking?"

The vice-like grip that's been slowly unwinding in my chest tightens right back up again. Spike. His cigarettes. Oh, my God, I smell like his cigarettes? I'd thought about it, once or twice, since arriving home. Thought maybe I could still smell him.

But I'd also kind of thought it was all in my head. Phantom smells, or something.

Maybe I just hoped it.

I stare at my sister, blinking rapidly, trying to think of something to say. Finally, I open my mouth and very squeaky sounding "What?" comes out.

Smooth.

Dawn eyes me, raising one eyebrow. She cocks her hip out the side and puts both hands on her waist. "You smell like someone's ashtray."

Fantastic.

It isn't just my imagination, then. His scent is all over me.

"I was...at The Bronze," I say, quickly unbuttoning my coat and throwing it over my shoulder. I don't know why I think removing it will help, but it seems like the thing to do. "People were...smoking. A lot."

Dawn stares at me hard for a moment, and then she shrugs, turning away from me.

Relief floods my chest, my shoulder visibly sagging.

I don't know why I think Dawn of all people is someone who'll put two and two together. Why I think she'd automatically connect cigarette smoke with Spike, and then connect Spike with me, and then connect Spike and me with sex.

Probably because that seems to be the link my brain's been making lately.

"Whatever," she says, heading back down the hallway to her room. "Mom says she needs to talk to you."

The relief I'd just felt turns to ice in my veins. I lunge forward, stopping Dawn in her tracks.

"What about?" I ask, the words coming out in a hurried frenzy. "Is something the matter? What's wrong?"

Dawn's eyes have gone wide with my urgency. She shakes her head. "Don't look at me, I don't know. She just said she needed to talk to you."

I let go of Dawn's arm, pausing just long enough to toss my coat in through my open bedroom door and continue on down the hall, straight into Mom's room. I give a small courtesy tap at the frame before pushing the already ajar door open and stepping inside. Mom's there, idly milling around her room, picking up clothes here and there, folding them, laying them over the end of her bed.

She stops when she sees me.

"Oh, hi, sweetheart," she smiles at me, folding a pretty blue sweater over her arm and laying it down. "Where've you been?"

I look at her, eyes wide. I've never liked lying to my Mom. Try and avoid it when it's possible, which is way easier not that I don't have to hide all my Slayer stuff. Still, how can I explain where I was, why I was there, without letting her in on what happened last night?

And once I've explained where I was, why I was there, and who I was with…I don't know, it just seems like one of those slopes.

Of the slippery variety.

"Oh, just out." I say, trying for casual. Mom raises an eyebrow. "Uh, I had some research stuff to do. A-and training. With Giles. Research and training with Giles," I plaster on a wide, cheesy smile. Then, hurriedly, "I did that grocery list for you."

It isn't true. I haven't even had a chance to think about it today. But she'd asked me about it earlier, after I'd finished re-bandaging my wound, and it seems the safest topic of conversation for now.

"Oh, great," she says, smiling at me again. "Thanks hon."

I watch her for a moment, flitting absently between the clothes she's laid out on the bed and looking back and forth from one end of the room to the other. There's a bag on the bed. An open duffle bag that she's folding clothes in to that I hadn't noticed until just now.

Something feels off.

I frown.

"Are you okay?" I ask, coming further into the room and crossing my arms over my chest.

Mom pauses, mid flit, to look up at me.

"I'm fine." There's a pause. Then, "Have you seen my conditioner?"

I give her a questioning look.

"Did you look under the sink?" I ask.

Mom gives me a knowing look, her eyes going wide as she snaps her fingers and heads into the bathroom. I come further into the room, dropping down onto the far edge of the bed. She emerges a moment later, conditioner bottle in hand, and carries it over to the bag.

She's packing.

Something is definitely off.

My brow furrows and I move to sit on the edge of the far side of the bed, tucking my legs underneath me.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh," Mom stops moving, places the conditioner bottle on the bed beside her bag. "I was hoping to put this off but...you know that nothing I've been dealing with the last couple weeks?" She pauses, waiting for me to acknowledge that I know what she's talking about.

Of course I know.

I nod.

Mom looks at me, her eyes narrowing just a little. "Well, it might not be nothing."

It's weird, hearing her say that. For weeks, it's been Dawn and I that have been doing all the worrying. We've been the ones fussing over Mom, making sure she gets rest, trying to keep her from worrying. She's been the one saying that nothing's wrong. That she's fine.

That it's nothing.

"It might not be nothing."

Suddenly, I feel very small.

"What is it?" I ask, feeling all of ten years old again, sitting on the edge of my mom's bed, watching her pack for some glamorous overnight trip, maybe a weekend get away with my dad.

But this isn't that.

I watch Mom take a deep breath in, pausing, and my stomach twists.

It isn't the same feeling from earlier tonight, not the same twisting, guilty, verging on nauseas. This feels cold. Like for some reason, whatever it is she's going to tell me is going to change everything. And not in the normal, you're the Slayer; a new Big Bad is after you, save the world from insert-Apocalypse-here type of change everything. The kind that changes everything for maybe a few months at a time before things sort of go back to normal.

This is different.

"I'm staying overnight at the hospital for observation," she tells me, as casually as she can. It doesn't soften the blow of what she says next. "I'm getting a CAT scan."

I freeze, my breath getting stuck in my throat. And the cold is back; inching its way from my chest, out through my arms and down to the very tips of my toes.

I blink, staring at her. In an instant this thing, whatever it is, has gone from being nothing to needing a brain scan.

CAT scan. I'm trying to think, rack my brain for any medical knowledge I may have stowed away from watching George Clooney on ER. CAT scan...is that the one where they look at your brain?

Or is that a PET scan?

Why are they all named after animals?

I feel hot, frustrated tears fill my eyes and Mom moves to sit on the bed across from me.

"It's only one night," she assures me, smiling. "A-and they say even if there is something, it's still very early if they didn't see it before."

My head is swimming, the words sounding all jumbled in my ears as she says them.

It's still early.

Still early for what? The implication is that it's still early enough to catch it, to treat it. This something, the thing we've been wondering about for weeks now. The thing the doctors weren't sure was even there?

If they didn't see it before.

The words sound as hollow repeated in my head as they do the first time Mom says them. Isn't that it? It's still early. There's still time. What they tell you when they want you to think everything's fine.

Looking at Mom now, I can't tell if she believes what she's saying is true or not, or if she's just doing that thing. Saying what she thinks I need to hear. That thing that parents do, always trying to protect their kids no matter what little white lies they have to tell to do it.

Even when that kid is the Chosen One.

It's been a long time since I've thought of myself as someone who needs protecting.

"I'm going to be fine," Mom says, reaching out to me and covering my hand with hers.

I fight to keep my voice even, the unshed tears making it sound thick as I force a smile and say, "I know you will."

I wait until after mom leaves, until after I'm sure Dawn's gone to sleep, to slip outside again. I stop off in my room just long enough to pull out a sweater, forgoing the wool coat that's still tossed on the floor in the corner of my room.

I think briefly about changing the rest of my clothes, too, but decide against it. In the wake of everything Mom and I just talked about, smelling like cigarettes, like Spike, doesn't seem all that important.

I slip silently out onto the back porch and make my way down to the steps, wrapping the sweater tighter around me. It's quiet out here. And still. There isn't even a breeze.

I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, through my nose, sinking down in time with my breath onto the porch steps. And then I run my fingers into my hair, gripping tightly at the roots and drop my head down. I squeeze my eyes shut and let myself cry, pressing my forehead down into my knees. It's more than just silent tears, too. These are sobs. They shake my shoulders, rack my frame and make it a little difficult to breathe. I don't know how long it's been since I've cried because I've been scared. It reminds me of when I was younger, waking up in tears out of nightmares that always had something to do with your parents dying.

I'm crying now because I'm scared. Scared for what the Doctor's might find. Scared for my Mom. Scared for Dawn, and for me.

And I'm scared because, if the Doctors do find something then I can't fight this. Not with Slayer strength, anyway.

I don't know how long I sit there. Fingers twisting in my hair, tears streaming down my cheeks, stomach heaving.

It hurts.

It's been at least a little while, ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before I feel the tingle shoot down my spine and know he's there. Standing there in front of me, watching me in the shadows.

I don't look up. Don't want him to see me like this, to know how weak and vulnerable I'm feeling.

This all feels so familiar. So similar to the night those weeks ago in the cemetery, the first night I'd seen him after the dreams started.

And yet it's so different.

Above me, Spike clears his throat. He isn't going to leave on his own. Not unless I ask him to.

Even then.

I sigh, dragging my head up, pulling my hands out of my hair. I stare up into Spike's darkened expression.

The same as it had been back in the alley, where I'd left him.

"What do you want now?" I ask, and if the tear tracks down my face hadn't given me away, the sound of my voice does.

I watch as the cloudiness fades from Spike's face, the dark in his eyes lightening. Even the hard set of his jaw, the rage I'd seen there just seconds ago seems to melt away.

He blinks at me, staring.

"What's wrong?" He asks finally, and as soon as the words leave his lips I see regret start to harden his previously softened features.

And I don't know what to say.

Because the lust is one thing. The way it echoes the drive for blood, how it manifests itself in violence. Lust, sex, darkness. That's something that...well, it doesn't make sense to me really, but I can feel it. It's almost acceptable.

Easier to deal with.

Sex is one thing. One thing that's never going to happen again.

Sharing our feelings is a wiggins of a different color.

"I don't want to talk about it." I fold my arms tighter across my chest, turn my face away from him.

There's a long pause. I can't see Spike, am consciously looking in the opposite direction, but I can imagine the look on his face. The seething rage, the well deserved anger, maybe a little of the hatred I'm so used to seeing.

"'S the theme of the hour, innit."

I turn my eyes back to his, frowning. "What?"

"Slayer doesn't want to talk about it," he explains, shoving both hands in the leather pockets of his duster, smirking coldly at me. "What a surprise."

So it's this again. Here we are, hardly even an hour later, and we're already back to this. And I know Spike's soulless and everything, but he isn't completely inept. He can read context clues, right? Pick up on body language?

It should be plenty obvious that if I wasn't in the mood to talk about this earlier, I'm very much not in the mood to talk about it now.

Not now.

My thoughts drift back to Mom, and I squeeze my eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears.

"I told you—"

"Not to ask you again," he says, mimicking my words from earlier. My eyes snap open. "Yeah, I heard you. You want me to let you bury your head in the sand, up your ass, the way you self-righteous lot tend to do." He snorts, tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. "Didn't really think we were gonna do that, did you?"

Honestly? No. That wasn't what I'd thought at all. I wasn't thinking we'd be back to dealing with it so soon, though. Too much Spike for one night.

I get a sudden visual in my head, a memory from earlier. His tongue in my mouth, one cold hand gripping my hips as he slams up into me. Demanding a response from my body.

Way too much Spike.

I drop my eyes away from him again.

"Go away, Spike," I murmur, trying to sound as harsh as I can.

I can see out of the corner of my eyes that he isn't moving. Then, a second later, "This about earlier?"

My eyes shoot back to his, narrowing. "What?"

Spike looks at me, a slow, knowing smirk curving his lips.

"This the part where you wallow in shame?" He asks, taking a step closer to me, tilting his head back. He eyes me through his lashes. "Self-loathin' over the loss of your sodding holier than thou attitude?"

My mouth drops open and I gape at him. Him. He thinks all this is about him? I narrow my eyes further, wiping furiously at the tear tracks still falling down my cheeks.

There's so many thing I want to say, but the only thing that comes to my lips is the old standby.

"You're a pig, Spike."

He laughs.

"Ooo, harsh words," he coos mockingly, taking another step toward the porch. "Not terribly original, but—"

"Go home," I hiss, my fingernails digging into my skin through the fabric of my sweater as I grip my arms tighter.

Spike just smirks at me, raising both his eyebrows. "Don't get your knickers twisted just 'cause I know—"

And something inside me snaps a little.

"You don't know anything!" I shout, leaping to my feet so quickly that I actually see Spike step back away from me.

He blinks his wide, azure eyes, the smug expression from a moment ago all but wiped clean. I see the question in them. Know what it is he's wanting to ask me.

And I don't know why, I may never know why, but I start to tell him.

"I-it's my mom," I mumble, wrapping my sweater more firmly around me and focusing my eyes down at my feet. I don't want to keep talking. Don't really want to tell Spike, of all people, what's going on. But the words are out now, and once they're out, I can't stop. "She's been having these headaches. And the doctors weren't sure what was causing them. I think at one point they thought it was nothing, just, like...migraines or something." I drop back down onto the porch step slowly, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. "They said it was nothing, but now they...she's at the hospital now. Overnight, for a CAT scan."

I turn my wet eyes back up to the vampire in front of me and watch as his brow furrows. He looks confused, almost boyish as he searches my face.

"Your mum is sick?"

It's such a weird thing to say, and not just because it's Spike that's saying it.

Although that's wonky enough as it is.

My mom is sick.

Like she has a cold or something. The flu. Why isn't there a different word for this? Shouldn't there be a distinguishing word, something that doesn't sound like you're calling into work or staying home from school with a stomach bug.

It isn't something I want to agree with. Not a question I want to have to say yes to. I guess, technically, it isn't something I even can answer. Not for sure.

That's the reason for the CAT scan in the first place.

So I don't. I don't respond, don't nod my head. Just sit on the porch steps and stare out into the backyard, not really seeing anything.

I've been silent for a long time. Five, maybe ten minutes. And Spike's just been standing there in front of me, hands still in his pockets, watching me. When I finally drag my eyes back at him, his expression is pained. He looks still looks so confused, dark brows drawn, shadowing his eyes from me.

I sigh loudly, rubbing my hands beneath my eyes to wipe away the rest of the dried tears there.

"Why are you still here?" I ask him, but not harshly.

I just sound tired.

Something catches Spike off guard. Whether it's my question, or just the fact that I'm suddenly speaking again, I'm not sure. But his eyes widen, and he blinks at me. When he makes no move to respond, I raise my eyebrows, inclining my head forward.

"I was…" he stammers, trails off. "Well, I was..." he trails off again, pausing to roll his eyes up to the sky, the muscle in his jaw straining. He shakes his head. "Bloody hell, never mind."

Spike turns on his heel, his duster billowing out behind him. He gets about three feet away from me, down the little mulched path to the gate, hidden behind the bushes when he suddenly stops. I watch him, standing stone still. I can tell his chest is heaving from the motion of his shoulders. Having some sort of internal debate.

And then he whirls around again, storming back up to me. He comes to a halt directly in front of me, so close that I have to crane my neck back to look at him.

We stare at each other.

Whatever it is he's about to say, it's obvious it's taking a lot out of him to say it.

"Can I—" He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. I watch him, straining, struggling for the words. It looks like he knows what he wants to say. Just isn't sure exactly how to say it. If he even should. Then, finally, he groans and forces his eyes back to mine.

They're stormy, midnight blue in the shadowy moonlight.

"Is there something I can do?"

There's that thing in his eyes again. The thing I can't place, that I've seen just bare hints of the last couple times I've been around Spike. If it were anyone else...well, if it were anyone else I'm still not sure I'd know what it was.

But it'ssomething.

And it makes my mouth run dry.

Even if I could answer him, I don't know what I'd say. Don't know how to respond to a question like that, coming from him. A couple things go through my mind immediately.

No.

Leave me alone.

Go away.

And the strangest one? The one that seems to be echoing more loudly than any of the others?

Stay.

It's there, in my mind, just as loud as any of other, more normal, more acceptable responses.

It isn't that Spike's presence is particularly comforting. It isn't. In fact, it's more unsettling than anything else, especially after...everything.

Maybe it's just that I don't want to be alone.

So whatever it is I'm thinking, I keep it to myself. Not that Spike's ever needed me to verbalize my thoughts for him to know them. After another, if not much shorter, internal struggle, Spike crosses to the porch, dropping down onto the step directly beside me. I almost jump when I feel his hand on my upper back, his palm tapping against my shoulder blade.

His hands had been all over me earlier. Digging roughly into my back, into my hips. Nails biting into my bare skin.

And it's the same hand that's touching me now. It's the same, but different. Because in spite of everything that's happened between us, all the physical lines we've crossed. I've crossed. This is almost tender. Almost sweet.

Almost something.

My eyes widen a little, and a fresh wave of tears fills them. I feel like they aren't just for Mom this time.

Spike pats my back, three, four times before he pulls his hand away. I see him out of the corner of my eye, leaning forward to rest his forearms onto his thighs.

He doesn't ask me any more questions. Doesn't even try to talk to me. We just sit in silence, side by side, facing forward and staring out into the dark, empty back yard.

Like a cease-fire.

So yeah, while I know somewhere buried in the back of my mind that what Spike's said is true, that what he'd proven to me again by showing up here at all…that this thing between us is far from over, I think we've called a truce.

Just for now. Just for tonight.

But it's enough.